


be still my foolish heart

by willoftitanium



Series: soft tma prompts [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Injury, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, The Magnus Archives Season 1, Worm Attack | Jane Prentiss Invades the Magnus Institute, also hot martin rights, im so excited about using this tag yall, removing worms with a corkscrew is something that can be so personal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29843406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willoftitanium/pseuds/willoftitanium
Summary: "Martin wants to say something, which is usually second nature for him. But something about being this close to Jon’s face makes him want to say something profound, something academic and refined, and Martin has a feeling that anything orbiting the phrase 'this is gonna hurt like a bitch' doesn’t really fit that description.Jon seems to understand, though."Prompt #2 - “Your heartbeat’s really loud.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: soft tma prompts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2192565
Comments: 4
Kudos: 106





	be still my foolish heart

**Author's Note:**

> I'm too hype about being able to use the canon-typical worms tag to say much else. set during the Prentiss attack, between when Sasha leaves to save Tim and Tim breaks down the wall.

"Well I'm _sorry_ if I have a good reason for an elevated heart rate right now, Martin."

Frustration wells like a papercut in Martin’s chest, but he still winces in sympathy. "I _know_ , I know. I just- I meant, you should try to slow it down, for, uh...since you're already bl-bleeding quite a bit." Jon opens his mouth and Martin knows it's going to be something snide, so he cuts him off. "Just- take some deep breaths, okay?”

Martin has his hand cradling Jon's jaw. Which is, _heh_ , well. Neat. Or it might be, it could be, if he wasn't trying to dig a god-forsaken _worm_ out of Jon's neck, crouched on the floor in a glorified storage closet. He would ask how it even managed to get up that far, under his shirt collar where it went unnoticed until now - until it reached skin and started, eugh, _burrowing_ . But Martin remembers the way Prentiss's worms jumped at him in that basement, fast and agile and _smart_ above all else.

He suppresses a shudder. No time for that now, what with a corkscrew in one hand and his boss's face in the other.

Jon, to his credit, tries. He takes a shaky breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth. He does it again, and again, until Martin can feel his thundering heartbeat calm ever so slightly against where the pads of his fingers meet Jon's throat.

"Alright, just, um-" Martin wants to say something, which is usually second nature for him. But something about being this close to Jon’s face makes him want to say something profound, something academic and refined, and Martin has a feeling that anything orbiting the phrase _this is gonna hurt like a bitch_ doesn’t really fit that description. Jon seems to understand, though. He nods once, as best he can in Martin's grasp. He might be going for brusque professionalism - like everything else he does - but the movement is a bit too fast and a bit too robotic. Not that Martin could blame him.

"Just get it over with." Jon says. And then, quieter, "please."

So he does.

After helping Sasha and Jon with the ones in their legs, Martin realizes he might be getting the hang of supernatural parasite extraction. Which is...a good thing? Maybe? He can add it to his CV. But it's not something Martin really wanted to _have_ to get good at, considering the sharp inhale, choked off at the end, and the trail of blood that runs like a teardrop until it meets the collar of Jon’s shirt.

Martin hardly registers the frantic _sorry sorry I know I'm sorry_ he's whispering under his breath, and he probably couldn't have stopped it even if he wanted to. The worm hadn't gotten far, not really, but it feels more...visceral, than the other ones. Jon's jaw is clenched tight under Martin's hand, small breaths hissed out through closed teeth. He's bent in close enough to feel the slight warmth of it on his face. God, he probably should have given him something to bite down on.

An eternity and a moment later Martin gets it, writhing on the end of the corkscrew like fishing bait. He flings it to the ground with a sound he isn’t exactly _proud_ of, but seems warranted. The thing already being half dead doesn’t stop him from stamping down on it with his foot, over and over, like he's putting out a fire. Probably a few more times than necessary.

Jon has his hand on his neck, breathing heavy. Blood drips sluggishly from under his fingers, and Martin doesn’t think twice before removing his shirt. His button-up, to be specific, leaving just his thin undershirt behind. Half-folded, half-crumpled, he passes it to Jon.

“Are you alright?" Martin knows it's a stupid question. "Here, put that on your, uh-" he gestures vaguely "...to stop the bleeding.”

After a moment Jon takes it with his free hand, a quiet _thank you_ between exhales. Martin’s already standing, so he takes a moment to check the window. It's something to do, and gets some stability back into his shaking legs. Not much has changed though, still worms and general nightmareishness outside.

God, _Sasha._ _Tim_. 

He sighs, turns to share the news and lack thereof-

And Jon is staring at him.

He's always had an intense gaze, and he _still_ does - even with the shirt pressed to his bleeding neck, glasses crooked on his face, hair sticking up every which way. Martin feels heat rising to his face under the weight of it. He rubs one of his exposed arms with his hand. "Is-is something wrong?"

Jon blinks, and then looks at him, _actually_ looks at him. Like a student caught daydreaming in class. Only for a moment though, and then he's looking everywhere _but_ him. He sputters. "Ah- no, no, I didn't, uh...I didn't say anything."

Martin's hardly ever seen Jon _flustered_ before, and despite all of the everything about this situation, it's still a novelty. Although what he could be so worked up about, Martin has no idea. 

Martin laughs, and he hopes it doesn't sound as awkward as it feels. "Well yeah, you didn't _say_ anything, but you looked-"

A creaking thud comes from the other side of the wall. Martin looks at Jon, and Jon looks back at him, and Martin knows they're in agreement about how badly they _do not_ want to die in here. But it’s Tim on the other side of the wall instead of Prentiss or her worms. Martin could cry. He does, later. 

There’s a lot that goes downhill, after that. But he does give Martin the shirt back. Weeks later, it’s washed and folded neatly on his desk, no trace of dirt or blood. And it smells just like him - old paper and lavender and sandalwood. The rational part of Martin's brain does _not_ want to think about it. But he does. Oh, he definitely does.


End file.
